


like a dream, no end and no beginning

by placentalmammal



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Angst and Porn, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-10-10 00:07:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17415173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/placentalmammal/pseuds/placentalmammal
Summary: When you call my name it's like a little prayerI'm down on my knees, I wanna take you thereIn the midnight hour I can feel your powerJust like a prayer you know I'll take you thereSpoilers through SIH 13!





	like a dream, no end and no beginning

**Author's Note:**

> we have EARNED THIS after that last episode!!!

He sleeps, mostly. Samot drifts in and out of consciousness, apparently unaware of His surroundings. Sometimes, He moans or cries out and Hadrian watches, helpless, wondering what nightmares stalk his sleep.

They cut His hair off. It was a medical necessity, but some small part of him is  _ furious.  _ Samot has already lost everything: husband, son, father, family, followers. They couldn’t leave him His pride? Without His mane of hair, He doesn't look like Himself. Samot looks weary, gaunt. No longer a king, no longer a god, just a man reluctantly approaching middle age.

He is still beautiful.

Hadrian sits in silence, studying His profile. He thinks idly that Samot looks sculpted from marble, each of His features chosen for its perfection: lips, eyes, nose, perfectly formed. Beside him, Hadrian feels misshapen, half-formed. Samot’s features are perfectly symmetrical, His lashes are thick and dark, His parted lips soft and full. His complexion is ashen, but the dark shadows under His eyes don’t detract from His beauty. 

Samot stirs, and Hadrian is on his feet in an instant.“My Lord,” he says, and he’s surprised at how easily the words come to him. Did he ever feel such ease as the Sword of Samothes? He can’t remember.

“My Lord, are you alright?”

Samot’s eyelids flutter, long lashes sweeping his cheek. He peers at Hadrian, momentarily confused, and then His expression softens. “Hadrian?” he croaks.

“My Lord, I am at your service--”

Samot shakes His head. “No.”

“My Lord?”

“Not a servant,” He says, choked up, “not any more.”

Hadrian tongue turns to lead in his mouth and he sits back in his chair, hands in his lap. Language deserts him; everything he could say feels either inane or inadequate. “Are you alright?” he repeats, keeping his voice low.

_ I met your husband,  _ he thinks.  _ He was both more and less than I expected. I am sorry. I have nothing to apologize for. _

Samot’s laugh catches in His throat. For a moment, He very much resembles his father. “I am dying, Hadrian,” He says, His voice barely audible. “I am not well.”

As He speaks, He raises a hand to Hadrian’s cheek and strokes his face, violet eyes focused and intent. His gaze is unfathomable, and Hadrian cannot bear its weight.

“Are you in pain?” Hadrian asks, avoiding His eyes. “There’s more of the sleeping draught, Adaire’s been working day and night--”

Samot hums. “And what of you, Hadrian? Have you been working tirelessly on my behalf?” His smile changes his face. He looks younger, more like Himself: beaten copper and cloth-of-gold, as splendid as the sun.

“I--” Samot is smiling, and Hadrian has no words. “I’ve been--”

“Be at ease, Hadrian,” He murmurs, and his blue black eyes flick down to Hadrian’s groin. “After all, I am the god of leisure.”

Hadrian’s face heats. He pulls his shirt down, trying to cover himself; he hadn’t realized he was hard. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, shame twisting in his gut.

Samot laughs wheezily. “I’m flattered, really,” He says, settling back against his pillows, “to provoke such a reaction, even as I am--well.  _ Well. _ ” His gaze dips down to Hadrian’s crotch and lingers there. The corner of His mouth twitches upward, and His pink tongue darts out to wet His cracked lips.

“My Lord--”

“Please, Hadrian,” He says, “we are past that. I  _ so _ love the shape of my name on your tongue.”

“ _ Samot _ \--”

His eyes flutter shut, savoring the sound. “You’re an incredible man,” He says, “so  _ singular,  _ my Hadrian.”

Hadrian sits there, wordless, hands at his sides. His cock stands at attention, enjoying Samot’s attention even as the rest of him burns with embarrassment. “Please,” he says, unable to keep his confused desperation out of his tone, “Samot, my Lord, I don’t know how I can please you.”

Still smiling, Samot looks at Hadrian through the veil of His lashes. “If you learn nothing else from me, dear Hadrian, you must learn to please yourself.”

For a moment, neither speaks.

“Er…do you mean that I should…pleasure myself?” he says, hesitantly.

Samot sighs, slumping back against the headboard. “Take your pants off, Hadrian,” He says, tiredly. “I want to watch you pull your cock.”

“Oh!” says Hadrian, face burning. “Oh.”

Samot fixes Hadrian with a  _ look _ , one familiar to him after fifteen years of marriage.

“Right,” says Hadrian, standing and fumbling with his belt. Samot’s scrutiny makes him clumsy, and the buckle slips through his fingers. After a few minutes of fumbling, he manages to open his fly, slipping his pants down off his hips. His cock hangs heavy between his legs, flushed and full.

“Exquisite,” says Samot, and His praise goes straight to Hadrian’s cock. “Go ahead, show me how you make yourself feel good.”

Whimpering, Hadrian wraps his hand around his cock. It’s been a while since he’s done this for himself, and he’s surprised as his own sensitivity. He stifles a groan and Samot’s breath catches. There’s a rustle of blankets, a creak of the bed frame--He’s touching Himself, Hadrian realizes. Dazedly, he wonders how long it’s been for  _ Him-- _

He’s never been artful about this; he doesn’t last long. Desperate, clumsy, Hadrian watches Samot watching him, shuddering at the intensity of His gaze. He listens for the hitch in His breath, watches for the press of His teeth against his bottom lip. It’s intoxicating, it’s too much. Hadrian comes with a moan, spilling into his hand.

The other man doesn’t last much longer. His hips spasm and He comes with a gasp, and then reaches out for him. Hadrian goes to Him, thinking for one wild moment that Samot means to  _ kiss  _ him, but then the god catches his hand and brings it to His mouth. As Hadrian watches, Samot wraps His lips around Hadrian’s ring and forefingers, lathing the digits with His tongue and lapping up his come. He looks up at Hadrian through His lashes, cheeks hollowed, and if Hadrian hadn’t  _ just  _ come, he’d be hard again.

“Samot,” he says, brokenly, repeating his name like a prayer, “Samot--”

“Hush,” He whispers, “it’s alright Hadrian.”

“Have I done well, my Lord?” he whispers, “have I pleased you?”

Samot laughs at that, not unkindly. “Oh Hadrian,” He says, fondly, “now and always.”

It is that which carries Hadrian forward, through the dark days to come. Samot’s laughter, His smile. The genuine affection in His voice, the softness of His gaze.  _ Now and always,  _ He’d said.  _ Now and always. _


End file.
